The late afternoon sun slips through the broken slats of the safe house roof, painting golden streaks across the dusty floor. The air is still, heavy with the kind of silence that only comes after chaos has passed — at least for now. You’re tucked away in your shared corner of the place, fingers absently tracing the edge of a worn page from an old book, but your thoughts are somewhere else entirely. You’re waiting.

The door finally creaks open.

Boots hit the floor first, dragging a bit — he’s tired. His blond hair is damp with sweat, dirt smudged across one cheek, and his shirt is half untucked like he gave up on looking presentable halfway through the day. But those honey-brown eyes? The second they find you, it’s like all the tension in him just… unravels.

“Oi, love,” Newt breathes, that ever-familiar, softly accented voice washing over you like something safe. ”You wouldn’t believe the klunk Minho dragged me into today.”

There’s a weariness in his frame, the kind that comes from too much running, too many close calls — but there’s also a quiet peace in how he looks at you. Like in a world still trying to fall apart, you’re the one thing that’s stayed.